


you're a sky full of stars

by ninemoons42



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Challenge Response, F/M, First Dance, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Inspired by Music, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Shameless Smut, Tumblr Prompt, cameo appearance by Chirrut!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 03:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10152650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: A first meeting beneath star-shaped confetti, waves of dance music, and an attic room.





	

_’Cause you’re a sky, ’cause you’re a sky full of stars_  
I’m gonna give you my heart  
’Cause you’re a sky, ’cause you’re a sky full of stars  
’Cause you light up the path 

Well. He knows the words -- the whole crowd must know the words from the way the shouting starts right on the second line, not perfectly on beat but perfectly by heart -- and then the DJ up on stage, who wears wraparound sunglasses and whose abruptly roguish grin lights up his austere sandblasted features, hits a series of buttons -- 

The words are surrounded by a lush and powerful driving beat that rockets the shouts and the screams, and the people around Cassian leap and twirl and kick and wave their joyously outstretched fists in the air and -- he can’t help it. Can’t help the smile that stretches his mouth wide, seeing the crowd in its frenzy and the DJ -- who is his friend Chirrut, bestselling dance music master -- in the midst of it all, conducting the great screaming wave of deliriously happy humanity as it gives in to the infectious crescendo of the music.

Cassian sings along, too, and closes his eyes -- that’s why he misses the reason why the crowd around him gasps and laughs seemingly as one person -- but when he looks around again he lets out a whoop and throws his head back to the barrage of bubbles and star-shaped confetti raining down from the rafters of the arena, lets the soap-kisses and the paper fall and flutter onto his face and then -- 

Impact, sudden and fierce -- he spins, suddenly thrown from his ecstatic high, suddenly plunged into icy cold caution, into the pricking prickling hyperawareness of protecting himself -- and the girl who’s just hit him with such terrific force is wide-eyed with shock and also apology -- but what he sees, what he clocks, is the way she’s standing, poised on her toes with her left foot forward as though she were ready to run or fight or shout --

He recognizes her. Not her name. She’s a stranger to him. But the way she holds herself ready to parry a blow in any instant -- he knows that well. 

So he doesn’t shout, doesn’t get angry, just uncurls his hand from its ready fist and its coiled tension and holds that hand out to her. “Come and dance with me, if you like!” he says, and she must hear him over the riotous glee of the dancers all around, because her eyes widen again, but this time -- this time crinkling lines appear in the outer corners, a closemouthed smile that catches the multicolored lights blasting from the stage, and she takes his offered hand.

And she’s the one who steps in, she’s the one who closes the distance between them, strangers sharing skin in a sudden instant, her arms wrapped carefully around his waist as she half-shouts, “May I?” into his shoulder.

“Dance with me,” Cassian says again, and he embraces her -- she fits into the circle of his arms and they start moving together, falling into the push and the pull of the groove, hips and shoulders tracing light-lit paths in the air --

She throws her head back and he’s suddenly caught on the specks of star-shaped paper cascading onto and then off her skin, off the movement of her throat as she sings along to the song, and he sucks in an unsteady breath.

That she seems to hear: and there is mischief glittering like galaxies in the depths of her eyes. At the corners of her coy smile. 

He feels the heat of her gaze as she rakes him with her eyes, head to foot, and he doesn’t flinch away: he still keeps looking steadily at her. 

She nods. Steps in closer than they had been dancing, brush of her cheek against his and the rainbow lights briefly illuminate the spray of freckles disappearing into her hair, the faint silver scars on her exposed collar bone. “Come with me,” she says, hot against his ear, making him shiver, making him want to press closer.

Yes, yes, he thinks, and he waits for her to offer him a hand. He trails after her, surefooted in her steps as she snakes a path through the massed dancers, past Chirrut who is looking in his -- their -- direction and it might be a trick of the light but he looks pleased, he looks proud -- 

“Do you know him?” Cassian half-shouts, as the girl shoulders past a pair of grinning bouncers. 

“I grew up with him!”

“He’s my best friend,” he tells her.

She turns. She smiles. Pure delight, radiating in waves off of her. 

He rocks back on his heels with pleased shock.

And stumbles to keep up with her, running down a series of back-alley streets until she pulls up at a beautifully weathered old building only a few blocks away from the arena, close enough that he can still feel the thumping beats beneath his feet. Up and up the carpeted stairs. 

“You live here,” he says, when she thrusts open a door. 

“When I’m in this city, yes.”

One bed in this small attic of a room -- one mattress and a pile of quilts and duvets, and it is an island in a sea of books and papers and, popping up here and there like shipwrecks, mugs and plates and cutlery. The funny thing is that when he steps past one of those mugs it seems clean -- like it had been used and washed and then placed back on the floor where it anchors several pages of scribbled-upon paper, where it sits next to a similarly clean tin can full of pens and pencils and -- he squints -- is that a quill?

And then his knee hits the bed. The bed that’s large enough to swallow this nameless girl whole. She sits on the edge, meets his eyes. She says, “It’s okay if you’re having second thoughts.”

But then -- the music. It had ebbed away from Cassian’s hearing but now he can again hear it, driving, a whip and spurs and a lash, and he drops carefully to her knees before her. Gives her a smile. “I just wanted to know your name.”

“I’m Jyn.”

“Cassian,” he says, and: “May I?”

She smiles, and those are her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, those are her hands gently pulling him forward and he’s more than happy to be moved, more than happy to fall into that first kiss, eyes drifting shut as he tastes spearmint and warmth on her lips. 

She kisses without fear and hesitation and he lets her explore him, falls headlong into the sweet delirium of her touch, and when he tears himself away to take a deep breath he’s looming over her where she’s fallen back into her quilts. She is pale and dark -- her skin and her confetti-streaked hair -- against the pinstriped blanket. She is smiling, deep flush from her cheeks to her ears and to her throat, and he dips his head to feel the rush of her pulse against his lips. 

It makes her laugh, a soft vibration that makes him shiver in turn, and he dives into her again: kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, tasting her thoroughly, and the next time he comes back to himself he’s already half-naked. His shirt, tossed to the foot of the bed. He watches her wriggle out of her dress -- he’s only now seeing what it is, a long slip of spangles crisscrossed with blue -- and then she’s down to her underthings. She’s trying to sit up.

“May I?” he asks again, catching her wrist with one hand.

Wide-eyed, she nods.

So he carefully peels away her bra and her panties and -- though he has to pull away from her to do this and he feels that yearning to get close to her like sharp needles in every nerve -- her shoes. Silver-sequined heels. He sets them all aside. Gets clumsily to his feet and strips off the rest of his own clothes. He sees her eyes linger on the scars on his skin, and she doesn’t look repulsed. Doesn’t look overly interested either -- she just looks him in the eyes, holds his gaze intently, smiles as she takes his hand and pulls him down again.

He catches himself with one elbow on the bed. Dips his head to nose carefully at the sweat on her shoulder. She is carrying her own scars, including the star-shaped pucker just above her breast. He kisses that scar, and feels her shiver, and he’s not surprised when she reels him in for another series of drugging kisses. 

He catches her nipple in his fingers, kisses her as he coaxes it into full hardness, swims the depths of his own blind need and navigates his way back to the surface because this isn’t just about him: he wants her to feel good, he wants to make her feel good -- he licks at the corner of her mouth, soothingly, when he pulls away from their kisses. Draws a path with his teeth and his tongue -- gently -- down to her breast and suckles, and she calls out, sweetly wordless, struggling to get closer to him. Her hands clutching at the back of his neck and in his hair. He bucks up into the bright fleeting flash of pleasure-pain, nips gently at her skin, moves to the other breast and this time she does manage to say his name, making him grin.

He can smell her, he thinks, he can smell the lush need of her, and he takes his time. Swirls a wet circle into the skin of her stomach with his tongue, noses briefly at the dip of her navel, and down -- he’s off the bed, he’s on his knees, and the skin around her cunt is flushed deep red. Dark springy hairs. He leans his forehead briefly against her thigh. Whispers into her skin: “Please?”

“Cassian,” she says, again, and she opens her legs to him.

He hitches her knee over his shoulder. Licks carefully at her folds until she’s gasping for breath. Kisses her cunt, wet and deep and dirty, and she tastes like sweet need. He groans and takes a breath that is filled with the scent of her and keeps going. Now he’s licking at her clit and now he’s pushing his fingers into her, one and then two and then -- when she demands, breathy and high-pitched, “More,” a third. Her hand tightens almost painfully in his hair and he welcomes that, just as he welcomes the way she groans and the way her hips buck wildly toward him. She’s a live wire, crackling and alive, electric against his tongue and his mouth, and then suddenly she goes completely still.

He strokes his fingertip against that secret spot within her and his reward is her hoarse cry, the bright stardust-shiver in her voice.

He’s not expecting her to suddenly grab for his shoulder. He goes to her, and before he asks, she kisses him. 

He pulls away and bows his head against her cheek and laughs, softly, and says, “I can wait -- ”

“No you can’t,” she retorts, pertly, and he laughs again. Lets her wriggle about and get comfortable, holds his breath as she pulls a wrapped condom from somewhere near the bed, tears it open, fits it onto him -- and then she’s pulling him in, lining him up, and he’s slow and careful when he enters her -- when he sinks into the powerful pull of her.

She keens when he thrusts into her, the first time, and he grits his teeth, moves -- again, and again, trying to remember to be gentle until she slurs out his name like it’s the sweetest obscenity that she’s ever said -- that’s when he blurs out. 

He thinks the vague pulse of the music that had pushed them together is still thrumming in his blood as he falls out of his rhythm, as he rushes headlong towards climax -- he murmurs her name in time, over and over, and she cries out again, and that’s the place where he’s lost, that’s the place where he comes, the immense impact of her imprinted into his skin --

When he wakes, suddenly, he’s still in her bed and she’s sitting up, reading. A handful of papers in her naked lap. Her hand is on his shoulder, and he sees the bruises around her knuckles, now, and he kisses her fingers with a reverence that he can’t quite name a source for.

She ghosts a touch across his cheek. Drops the sheets over the side of the bed. Lies down, tucked securely into his side, and he doesn’t question the impulse that makes him turn to her and hold her close.

He thinks he hears her sigh, and hopes she feels content.

And he remembers something she said, and says, “How long are you going to be here?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I -- wander.”

He nods. “Maybe the next time you’re here you could -- look me up.”

She laughs, and kisses him, and he responds like he’s trying to remember her.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt Four: "one bed" at [@rebelcaptainprompts](http://rebelcaptainprompts.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr.
> 
> I am also on tumblr myself -- look me up [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


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